Karachi Calling

The comically misnamed Voter's Guide in Saturday's Houston Chronicle offered little to guide us in next week's elections, but it did confirm our surmise that the race for the District F seat on city council is an all-Pakistani affair.

We knew already that incumbent M. J. Khan was of Pakistani origin and that his batshit challenger, John Shike, also hailed from that same corner of the partitioned Subcontinent. Now, thanks to the Chronicle's incisive reportage of forms the candidates fill out and send in to the paper, we know for certain that M. J. Khan's other opponent, the unrelated K. A. Khan, is also a Pakistan native and claims a diploma from Karachi University (whether he received his retroactively remains an unaddressed mystery).

This most certainly is a development of historic scale, not only in our humble District F but likewise in the city of Houston, the state of Texas, the entire United States of America and perhaps the whole planet Earth outside of Pakistan (assuming they elect the equivalent of city councils there, we dunno).

What's interesting (mildly ... eh, not so much, really) is that while a Census update shows "non-Hispanic Asians" (are there "Hispanic Asians?") make up about 15 percent of the district's population---by far the largest percentage of 'em among the city's nine council districts---Pakistanis, despite their presence behind the counter at almost every convenience store/gas station in southwest Houston, can't possibly account for more than a mere 2 or 3 percent of the district's population, if that much (well behind Vietnamese- and Chinese-Americans, we presume).

So maybe the Pakistani immigrant, in addition to his recognized talent for buying up distressed properties in borderline neighborhoods and allowing them to become further distressed, has a heretofore unacknowledged knack for electoral politics, such as reputedly possessed by the Irish-American ward heeler in days of yore.

We've previously reported that our introduction to Mr. K. A. Khan came through a mailing with a fine-print identifier in which he blamed M. J. Khan for a rise in gang activity, prostitution and graffiti in District F (the graffiti proliferation is definitely fact-based, although we doubt the obviously increasing volume of preliterate handwriting on the wall would be less if Mohammad J. Christ hisself were on city council). K. A. has reported raising a fair amount of money for a council challenger, most of it from what appear to be fellow Pakistanis (M. J., by contrast, claims a fairly wide base of support and seems to have been responsive to constituent concerns, so we're assuming he won't be sunk next week in a miasma of voter confusion/indifference).

It's probably difficult for these candidates to stand out in the all-Pakistani crowd, so they might want to steal a turn from our fellow "non-Hispanic white" man we saw panhandling Saturday morning on the turn-lane median of Chimney Rock and Highway 59 ... festively sporting a tall witch's hat. We would have tossed him a buck, but we had the light.

It's that little extra flair that can mean the difference between an icy stare and a handful of loose pocket change, or being a "real estate investor" and having a good job with decent salary and benefits representing District F.

http://aboutslamposplace.blogspot.com

Feel Like Some Poetry Today

Threw a chair
at Phil Garner
But it sailed over
the insufferable
gray-streaked horizon.

Then awoke
to the smell
of burning plastic
everywhere.

Thursday.
jueves.
Jesus.
Hey Soos.

The frickin
Metro
bus
was
late
too.

“Houston Dreamin’ Thursday A.M.,” excerpted from Down in ‘The Brae’, by Hidalgo “Hard” Hidalgo, reader representative and Metro patron since 1999

The ‘F’ Stands for Khan-Fucking-Fusing

A week or so ago we got one of those direct-mail pieces that clutter the mailbox around election time. This one did command our attention.

“M. J.=Crime Drugs Prostitution,” it blared, next to a picture of our District F city councilman, M. J. Khan, who, as Alice Roosevelt Longworth once said of Thomas Dewey, has a pronounced resemblance to the little man on the wedding cake.

Below that is a chalked murder-scene body outline with “District F” printed on it. (Subtle, no?)

On the back it says: “M. J. has destroyed our trust and community” and goes on to claim that District F has “more break-ins … drugs … gangs and graffiti … prostitution” since Khan’s been on the council.

Well, at least the boy’s been busy.

The fine-print disclaimer on the mailer reads “Political Adv. By K. A. Khan Campaign Lenny Treasurer.”

Lenny Treasurer?

We finally realized over the weekend that this K. A. Khan is running against incumbent M. J. Khan in the Nov. 8 election. K. A. has several large signs further uglying up the already stupendously fug-ugly stretch of Hillcroft near Highway 59. The signs proclaim that “The 'A' Stands for Accountability,” although we figured it stood for asshole based on his scurrilous and near-anonymous hit mailing.

(The K stands for Khalid, according to city records, and Khalid A. Khan has reported raising a not-insubstantial $68,000 in campaign money, most of it from contributors with, and how shall we put this without offending the sensitive portion of our readership, Muslim-sounding names, which we report only because we surmise that Khalid A. Khan has not exactly staked a wide base of support in the highly diverse district, and because, well, we list “telling the truth” at the top of the Slampo’s Place Mission Statement. The third candidate in the race is John Shike, whom we know to be a certifiable loon, and we would so testify in court, if compelled to do so.)

M. J., a Pakistani-American who once was president of the local Islamic Society (and if this Khan vs. Khan khan-test is more than mere rank opportunism on the part of K. A. and reflects some split in the local Muslim community, well, we would hope some media outlet that pays its employees to gather and report information will so inform us), represents Sharpstown and Alief, areas that have undergone significant shifts in their racial/ethnic composition in the past quarter century. The District F seat was long occupied by the Last Angry White Man in Southwest Houston, John Goodner, and more recently was in the custody of a more buttoned-down Caucasian, Mark Ellis (who seemed OK). Hispanics constitute a majority of the District F populace, while the percentage who are Ofay has fallen to well below 20 (although us whiteys account for a much higher percentage of the electorate, natch).

We didn’t know too much about M. J. before the last election, when he sought the seat after Ellis decided to run for a citywide council position, and we still don’t. We learned that his wife was a doctor and he had some graduate degree or another from Rice University (credentials we found reassuring, even though at our advanced years we should know better). We also recalled hearing or reading somewhere (probably not in the local daily, which seems to have pretty much given up on covering local politics) that M. J. had some Republican connections or was affiliated with the Harris County GOP, but we also were led to believe that he was somehow allied with the slithery Sylvester Turner and the ever-present Sheila Jackson Lee, both liberal Democrats, and the former did in fact cut a taped phone message for Khan (the one we got offered no identifier, possibly because someone thought Turner’s voice is so distinctive that he needs no introduction).

We saw Khan once on a Saturday afternoon before the election, door-knocking a couple of streets over from us and later driving a late-model BMW or Audi up and down the street as if he were searching for some targeted address (we waved, but he did not, which suggested to us that M. J. Khan is a careful driver who keeps his eyes on the road and his hands upon the wheel).

That, however, was once more than we saw his runoff opponent, the son of a former Houston mayor (not Kathy Whitmire) whom we never espied in the neighborhood, nor did we get so much as a door-hanger or a piece of direct mail (lyin’ ass or otherwise) from the gent. We suspect he figured his hallowed last name would carry the day, but unfortunately for him many voters in the district nowadays wouldn’t know a McConn from a M. J. Khan. (And they may not know an M. J. from a K. A., either.)

So, using the “what the fuck” principle we often apply to local judicial contests, we went with M. K. in ’03. Excuse me: M. J.

We have no idea whether M. J.’s been a good, fair, fair-to-middlin’, poor or piss-poor council member. We saw him once at a meeting his office helped arrange so residents of our neighborhood could vent at Public Works supervisors over the continuing effed-up mess on Dunlap Street. Khan seemed pleasantly inoffensive and attentive to all. He gave a little wrap-up speech in which he suggested that “everyone” in Houston should purchase flood insurance (which, as far as we know, he does not sell).

We’ve asked our neighbors, but they seem to know even less than us about M. J., other than that his office has been relatively cooperative in dealing with the Dunlap Street Crime Scene. (One, an ex-NASA employee who claims to have lived on our street for 49 most likely godforesaken years, and whom we consult about past flooding and hurricanes, etc., calls him “Genghis, our man on council”… a little multicultural humor for ya there … )

The last time we saw M. J. was not an in-person sighting but rather on TV during the approach of Hurricane Rita, when he planted himself like 500-pound armoire behind Mayor Bill White’s left shoulder every time White and County Judge Robert Eckels staged a news conference. He looked properly concerned and stoic in the face of impending doom.

So, based on those fleeting impressions and that scant knowledge, it appears we’ll once again be bestowing the Slampo’s Place nod on M. A. … er, M. J.

That’s M. J. Khan. For council.

His opponent is K. A.

The district is F.

The letters are many, but the days grow short.

The Genius of Greg Hurst

"Well, I don't guess he'll be waching the game."
-- referring to Saddam Hussein Thursday evening while segueing from a report on Saddam's trial to a story on the Astros' first World Series appearance

Menawhile, back on the ground, James Kunstler, in slow-roasting the New York Times Sunday Magazine's blithe examination of a land-voracious suburban builder, offers this pricelessly pungent prediction for our fellow consumers in the higher latitudes (Kunstler's a guy who we hope is wrong, even though we find ourselves agreeing with a good portion of what he writes):

Home heating costs are going to crush the public this winter, and even the supposedly well-off in big new houses are going to feel the pain, because the truth is that many of them are leveraged up to their eyeballs to be where they are, and supernatural utility bills will push them over the edge just when the national bankruptcy laws have been revised to make wiggling out of debt much more difficult and punitive. The price of gasoline will keep ratcheting upward from where it is now like a medieval torture device, and will combine with home heating costs to make the public's collective head pop like a winter melon.

Not exactly sitting cozy by a warm fire, huh? Almost makes us glad we live in a zone where the high temperature on October 20 was 85 and all we'll have to worry about is the tab for the wintertime air conditioning.

Why the Astros Lost on Monday Night ...

... Because God looked down on Minute Maid Park and thought he noticed Ken Lay sitting way too close to the field.

"I'm not always just," God explained in an exclusive post-game interview with Slampo's Place, "but I'm always angry. And I've got a long memory."

Our Astros Dream (And You Can Be in Ours, If We Can Be in Yours, Assuming You Pass the Background Check)

As recorded, with the Lord as our witness, shortly after waking at 6:45 a.m., October 15, 2005, Lafayette La:

We had tickets, or a ticket, to an important game, possibly in the playoffs, although it seemed like a World Series game, yet we had no way to get there, there being the Astrodome (or it could have been Colt Stadium, who knows), apparently because we were both the ingenuous, open-hearted 12 year old we once were, as well as the sorry old bastard we’ve become, and thus probably could not drive, but we remembered there was a number we could call and the Astros organization would arrange a ride to the stadium by sending a player or coach around to pick us up before game time, and we vaguely recalled (either from a past dream, or possibly as a recovered memory in this particular dream) having once satisfactorily availed ourselves of this service and being taxied to the Dome by Terry Puhl, who (we recalled) was a very nice guy who drove a spiffily refurbished El Camino and played us some homemade cassettes that betrayed an unexpected (to us) taste in music, so we called and a team functionary on the other end informed us that “Mel Tillis” would be phoning us back shortly to get our address, leaving us thinking that she meant … Bob Lillis? … and not the stuttering country singer who sired the comely Pam and made the taquito the hot breakfast food of the third week of November, 1986, but when the call came it was neither Mel Tillis nor Bob Lillis, the caller identifying himself as “Bill Rigney” (!?) but sounding like our professor for Introduction to Philosophy, a Dr. So-and-So Frankfurter, a self-described Holocaust survivor who stood in the front of the class and chain-burned cigs in the fruity European style and took pains to disagree with the premise of almost anything a student said, supposedly in the service of teaching you to think but most likely because it beat actually teaching, and we said to Mel/Bob/Dr. Frankfurter, “They say you’re going to come pick me up,” and he replied: “They? Who’s this ‘they’? …” and so it went for several more exchanges, until we finally realized the SOB on the other end was not coming for us, and we huffed, “Well screw you dad, we’re takin’ Metro!” and he said, “You do that …” and the conversation ended, but then we started to worry that we couldn’t bring our dog on the bus …

… And we woke up.

We share this because we know it means something, because we’ve heard and read so much about some supernatural force guiding the Astros---God, destiny (which won’t be denied), Roger Clemens’ mother looking down from above, etc.---that we believe that somewhere in this illogical sleep-glop is a sign from above, one that will reveal the key to the team’s 2005 World Series triumph.

We recounted the dream in an email to our psychoanalyst, Dr. Jasper Lamar Crabb, who quickly wrote back: “What this means is that you won’t be going to any post-season games this year. Most likely ’cause you been a bad boy.”

http://aboutslamposplace.blogspot.com

Where Katrina Met Rita: Allons à Lafayette!

SOUTH OF I-10, LA. -- David Vitter made a funny the other day, or tried to, when speaking in Lafayette, according to The Advocate of Baton Rouge (which we see is billing itself as "The Independent Voice of South Louisiana," it being one of the few dailies left in the state not sucked into the maw of the Gannett chain).

Vitter, the state's freshman Republican senator, observed that Lafayette was "unfortunately ... the crossroads where Katrina meets Rita," then added, after what surely was a pregnant pause, "I always knew I was against same-sex unions."

Nothing like a little same-sex-union humor to loosen up the Lafayette Parish Republican Executive Committee.

The truth is, though, that being at the "crossroads" of the two hurricanes has been somewhat advantageous for Lafayette, which has long fancied itself a sort of mini-Houston, with its French Catholic joie de whatchamacallit balanced out by a fairly rigorous devotion to the money-making subclause of the Protestant Work Ethic. Lafayette developed as the mercantile center for what essentially was an area of small farms, thus avoiding having its economy tied to the large slave-and sharecropper-dependent plantations that dominated nearby parishes, and much later the offshore drilling business was so good to the city that by the late 1970s it was estimated that one in 80 residents was a millionaire (we, unfortunately, knew only 79 people when we resided there). A few years ago residents rejected casino gambling and subsequently lost their horse track to adjacent St. Landry Parish, which is struggling to address many of the pressing issues of the 19th century.

So far Lafayette's luck has held: the city escaped serious damage from both hurricanes, aside from downed power lines and scattered trees falling on to or through roofs, and evacuees from Rita and Katrina apparently are sending a nice little buzz through its economy. According to the local Gannett franchise, the city recorded 570 home sales in September, a 200 percent increase over the same month last year, when it already was in the midst of a construction boom. Not that the benefits aren't coming with costs. Upwards of 3,000 evacuee children have enrolled in the school district, and the traffic congestion in town has gone from onerous to nearly unbearable. We heard the manager of the Cajundome on the radio saying that the evacuees housed there had put 10 years (maybe it was 20) of wear and tear on the facility. While the city of 110,000 has taken in far fewer evacuees than Houston, the impact of the mass relocation is much more evident here.

While Vitter the senator was taking the personalization of acts of nature into previously uncharted territory, our new favorite megalomanic, New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin, was on a tour of shelters in the state, urging evacuees to get back to the city and assist in its rebuilding. But a Gallup poll for CNN and the Gannett Co. found that almost 4 in 10 residents who sought assistance from the Red Cross say thanks but they won't be returning.

Meantime, New Orleans is keeping its priorities straight: The city council has been engaging in what are no doubt thoughtful discussions on staging Mardi Gras next year.

http://aboutslamposplace.blogspot.com